


Impossible is Merely a Mountain to Climb

by Atqueinstupracaballum



Category: The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde - Robert Louis Stevenson
Genre: Fantasizing, Jekyll's a horny bastard, M/M, Obsession, One-Sided Attraction, Perversion, Pre-Canon, REALLY one-sided, Set when everyones in Uni, Unrequited Lust, Utterson should probably run tbh, Violent Thoughts, proof read at ass o'clock in the morning we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-13
Updated: 2020-06-13
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:40:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24694645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Atqueinstupracaballum/pseuds/Atqueinstupracaballum
Summary: "...some nights Jekyll's mind was full of puss and parasites."
Relationships: Henry Jekyll/Gabriel John Utterson
Kudos: 27





	Impossible is Merely a Mountain to Climb

There were two sorts of lust in the world. Lust that grew and thrived because it was easy to sate and lust that grew and thrived because no satiation ever graced it. The spring of honey lay before the eye, yet one's tongue remained at bay. 

Jekyll had had plenty of experience with that first sort of lust, his nights were full of it, pleasures for pleasure's sake found in drink and in his fellow creature. The latter, however, was a new beast entirely. It felt similar to that heat of debauchery he was so used to, but instead of flesh and chemicals caressing him, indulging his every whim and wish, it was the unsatiable pressure of fantasy, and fantasy alone, which made his loins burn for a release that never truly came. Yes, in the night with his disgrace hidden under bedsheets he would satisfy his bodily needs. But a man was more than a body. 

The mind was master of all, and some nights Jekyll's mind was full of puss and parasites. Imagination enflamed, he lay spent yet still hungry. Cold, empty, yet burning alive, a sweat-stained vessel overflowing with base urges that would mortify the sane. Unlike the pleasure that could be sated, which he doffed once the sun came up, this new lust did not abide by any schedule, he could not lock it away in the dark gorge of his heart. Like a spirit it would leave, then come again any time Gabriel John Utterson -his dear, dusty, awfully serious Gabriel- came into view. 

Such a man to crave, it was worthy of a scoff. He was not that handsome -though not ugly per se- his speech was monotone at best, and Jekyll had yet to count, in all their years of friendship, more than three or four expression come over his face. He was the dullest, most lovable young man ever to enter into any English University. He talked of God, of ethics, of education, of theater -but only the most respectable sorts-. Utterson was so, so, so restrained, so simple; the most British specimen Jekyll had ever bore witness to. Yet each exquisitely dull, gray, British, Christian fingerbreadth of him made it all the more thrilling to consider what he would look like slammed face down across Jekyll's desk, taking cock from behind. 

It was monstrous, really, the things he thought of sometimes, the notions he played with secretly. 

Jekyll wanted to hear his friend beg. Jekyll wanted that cool composure Gabriel used as a cloak to lay in shreds below both of them. He wanted to see that dusty lawyer in tears, flushed up like the whore boys Jekyll amused himself with. Saccharin tinged half thought of a kiss, paired with a stray brush of fingers, some times presented themselves as Utterson and he walked on campus or sat to tea. Those little whispers of touches were something he gave in to occasional. Gabriel, dense, godly Gabriel did not notice or else did not comment. Those sweeter, more charming fantasies were but drops in the ocean of vivid eroticisms that grasped wildly at his head and plunged his excited body into ponds of scalding lamp oil. Defiling his friend in the shadows of some back alley, fucking him in front of other morally compromised companions in vice, licking and biting and prying until he was nothing more then a mess of shiver racked limbs crying for Jekyll -only Jekyll!-, pleasuring his cock under one of the libraries tables while he attempted -and failed, for Jekyll was skilled with that tongue of his- to work like he know he ought, and all other manners of sordid, impossible debauchery tempted him. 

'Impossible...' 

Impossible had always been a harsh word in his opinion. One he never liked to hear, or have applied to him. To him, impossible was merely a mountain to conquer, an adventure to be sought and savored. 

Impossible was a challenge. Henry Jekyll never backed down from a challenge.

**Author's Note:**

> I may add to this in the future I may not, that shit's up to the gods at this point.


End file.
